


And in the End, Blood

by haehnchen



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Blood, Forced Kiss, Geralt is late, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, I dont understand how windows work in witcher times, I'm terrible at romance, M/M, No Beta, OR HOUSES, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Rude townsfolk, Tags will be updated :)), Vampires, cannibalism hunny, post mountain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28131750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haehnchen/pseuds/haehnchen
Summary: “So, what? You’ve decided to kill me?” he cried—in a very deep and manly tone. His free hand slapped against the floor as he tried to crawl away. His blood pounded worryingly in his ears.“Quite the opposite, actually,” said one of the vampires; he wasn’t actually sure which one. “We like you a lot; we’re making sure you’ll be around forever.”Or, Jaskier accidentally gets involved in a monster hunt in Geralt's absence.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 31
Kudos: 297





	1. The Path to Ballater

Sometimes Jaskier wondered what would happen if he started writing about Geralt again. This time no filter, this time he would reveal the Witcher’s ignorance, his cruelty, his monstrous treatment of those who crossed him. Yet every time he thought about it, the lyrics forming themselves in his mind would evaporate. Because, in the end, Jaskier didn’t think Geralt was ignorant, or cruel, or monstrous. 

Sure, he had his spells of anger, and said hurtful things, and…had nearly gotten him killed by the djinn, but those were normal human things—the djinn aside. People were stupid, and Geralt was one of the stupidest people Jaskier had ever met.

Besides, it would be unfair to speak ill of the Witcher. Even with glowing praise of “The White Wolf” being sung all over the Continent—You’re welcome—Geralt had still managed to get his face spat in and belongings stolen. If Jaskier began to defame him, Geralt was likely to get himself killed. And though he was very, very angry with him, Jaskier refused to entertain the idea of killing Geralt. 

And another thing—he didn’t want his brand to be sullied by depressing music. Jaskier was an artist—and a good source of information, to some—and he needed his reputation spotless so as not to attract unwanted attention. News that he was no longer friends with the Witcher would mean political ties severed. 

So yes, coin was a motivator. But that was fair. 

He was currently following a steady flow of money through towns he couldn’t remember the names of. Each one of them had sounded something like “Hunamalevanov,” all with overly complicated titles for places filled with dull people he also couldn’t remember. 

Today he had departed from one such town. After earning his profit and spending several romantic nights with less than memorable maidens, he was on his way. The woods were a constant for Jaskier, whether he traveled with Geralt or not. His survival skills were decent after two decades of roughing it, but he preferred to keep his hands and belongings clean; he would practically jog between towns in order to avoid camping. 

In part because the Witcher was no longer around to protect him.

Jaskier found that assertion quite rude. The idea that he needed Geralt around for some form of protection. If it came down to it, he knew how to stab people. Hold a knife and thrust it into someone’s body—it’s not that impressive. It wasn’t like Jaskier wanted to hurt anyone, but he was curious what would happen if he was given the chance. With his double profession it was likely that chance would arrive someday. Hopefully a day far, far in the future.

In the distance the bard could see a little sign nailed into the roots of a strong tree; hopefully it would tell him where he was going and how far he had to travel. Though he had enough coin for a good room at many an inn, he had never bought a horse. He was stuck travelling on foot for the time being. Bitterly he was reminded of Roach. He wondered how she was doing, and then allowed his thoughts to flit elsewhere.

It was a beautiful day, all things considered. There had been very little rain for some time, and he was thankful for the shade the trees provided. Light flickered down through the foliage, dappling the path. He was also thankful that most of the travelling he had done over the last few months had been on paths. No need to wrangle with dense shrubbery as the Witcher did so often. He read the sign as soon as he was able to. 

Ballater, five miles. He snorted. Well, he’d remember that stupid name.

He was also impressed with how far he had traveled. Eight miles, and it wasn’t even dark yet. Despite himself Jaskier smiled widely and let out a near-hysteric laugh. He had never made such good time!

He couldn’t wait to arrive at Ball-Eater and sing his stupid ballads about the great White Wolf and his child surprise! It was at this point Jaskier began to seriously wonder what would happen if he defamed Geralt. After all, he could take care of himself, defend his life with his swords. Geralt would be fine, even if Jaskier actively demonized him. Once more he snapped to his senses. 

Absolutely not.

Geralt was not a monster. Geralt was just stupid. And Jaskier knew it. He refused to act like the Witcher and blame his problems on someone else. Jaskier’s entire life had led up to this point; he had been the one to choose to spy for whoever payed him, to become a bard, and worst of all to get involved with Geralt. In a way, everything really had been his fault. 

He grit his teeth. It really was a beautiful day. Birds were chirping and flitting around him. He would arrive in Ball-Eater and earn money off Geralt’s name and his own merits. He would sleep with as many people as he wanted, and drink as much as he needed to forget himself. It didn’t matter.

Because, in the end, Jaskier was alone. He didn’t have anyone, just his lute and his voice. That was all he needed. He had nothing to prove, either—just money to make and a bed to sleep in. Geralt was gone.

Another sign. Three miles, Ballater—someone had carved an “e” just between the second L and the A so that it read Balleater. Jaskier smirked at that. Clearly the locals thought as little of their town as he did; this would be an interesting series of performances. Perhaps he could put on a bit of a comedy show, rag on the town. Never mind; that would require learning about it enough to put together jokes.

After a couple breaks for water and a culminative hour of walking, Jaskier could finally see the town in the distance. He stood on a hill above it, the trees thick around him and thinning out in the vicinity of the town’s walls, which were tall and thick. He sighed. Ballater looked a bit less glamorous than the place he had been before. He hoped at the very least that their inn would be lavish. He could use a good scrub after the eight hours of sweating he had just done.

It was as he stepped over a veiny tree-root that he heard an earsplitting scream ring out, and the cries of men emanating from the town. He stood frozen to the spot. It was far, far too late to turn back.


	2. The Porch Man

There had been very few times in Jaskier’s life that he was left completely speechless. Usually the feeling was accompanied by the urge to never speak again; this time, however, he wanted very badly to scream and run—make as much noise as he could. So, like a fool, he sprinted straight for the gate of the town.

The sight greeting him was a woman—presumably the source of the scream—gagged and being tied forcefully to the railing of a nearby porch. She was twisting desperately, tears streaming down her grimy face. She was thin, he noted. Remarkably thin. But so were the pair of men tying her. He swallowed, feet shifting in the dust as he struggled to assess the situation.

“Who the fuck are you?” called someone—there was another woman, grey-haired and stout. A dozen pairs of confused eyes were focused on him. Jaskier regretted his decision to barge in immediately.

“Ah, well, you see,” he said, straightening up. He was an artist, after all, and could talk his way out of anything. “I’m a bard, here to bring you joy! Which…well, you seem in need of,” he said. He glanced at the tied woman, who now hung slack from the porch. Gesturing at her, he added, “May I inquire why that’s…happening?” 

“Bitch stole some bread,” replied the woman. Odd. Perhaps because of his upbringing Jaskier could never and would never understand the lifestyle of peasants, but he had spent many nights on an empty stomach and never had the urge to murder over food. He pursed his lips.

“A bard, you say?” said one of the men on the porch. He sounded genuinely intrigued, but there was something sinister about the question, “Which one?”

Jaskier thought for a moment, and then he answered, “Valdo Marx himself!” He smiled broadly. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. Something here was wrong. The ribs on each of the townsfolk were practically protruding through their clothes. He doubted they even had enough coin to pay for a performance. “And, unfortunately, I see I have intruded on some kind of…trial against this woman, and I believe it would be in everyone’s best interest if I wasn't a distraction?” he said hopefully. The man blinked at him. “As in—I will be leaving now. Have a nice day.” 

With a sickly-sweet smile, he turned on his heel and was sped towards the woods, prepared for the scary animal noises of the night and the awkward hellos he would receive when he returned to…wherever he had been.

“Wait a minute. You’re not going anywhere.” Someone’s meaty hand plopped down on his shoulder and he cringed. “I would recognize that legendary instrument anywhere,” said the porch man. “Let’s have a little chat, you and I.”

“That’s not necessary,” he said. The grip on his shoulder tightened almost painfully and he was led to the stairs of the porch. Perhaps he had overestimated his ability with words and people, which was incredibly disappointing for him. 

“You know, Julian, most people on the run wouldn’t carry around such an iconic belonging,” said Porch Man, brown eyes glinting.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” lied Jaskier. “My competitor gave me this ridiculous lute—of all the extravagant items in his possession—and asked me to keep it safe.”

“And for whatever reason you chose to do so?” said Porch Man, eyebrows high and unamused. “It’s well known, your hatred for each other. I doubt Valdo Marx would ever do a favor for you.”

Well, thought Jaskier. I guess you’re right. I wished him dead and he failed to fulfill that desire. He snorted involuntarily. Incredulously. Right in Porch Man’s wrinkled face. Porch Man didn’t seem thrilled. It was clear that either way—playing dumb or playing along—would result in the same outcome. “Well, you caught me,” said Jaskier. 

“Before Nilfgaard, too,” said Porch Man a little too smugly. 

“Well, now that you have me, what exactly is your plan?” he asked. “Are you going to turn me in or something of the like?” 

“Oh, absolutely not. Master Jaskier, it is an honor to have you in our company.” He let out a breath he had tried to ignore. “I do have one question—this is important—where is the Witcher?” asked Porch Man. Once more, curiosity and menace laced his voice. Jaskier’s brows immediately furrowed themselves and he eyed Porch Man.

“I have no idea,” he said. It was the truth, yet no one seemed to believe him. 

“Any…guesses?” 

“Apologies, friend, but I haven’t seen or heard from Geralt of Rivia for the past five months,” said Jaskier. He did have an estimate—Geralt had likely gone to Kaer Morhen, wherever that tortured-soul-producing fortress was, for the winter, and passed through this valley some time ago. Suddenly Jaskier understood. “Has he been through here?”

“Actually yes,” said Porch Man, surprised. “Before we get into the…real conversation, allow me to introduce myself. I am Onanes, keeper of the gate. Welcome to Ballater.” It sounded just as stupid when it was spoken aloud. “And—apologies for the…woman hanging from the banister.”

Self-restraint was not something Jaskier prided himself on, yet in that moment he was able to hold back a massive laugh. 

“You see, Master Jaskier, we are in a bit of a situation.” No shit, thought Jaskier, glancing briefly at Onanes’ gaunt cheeks. “We have become the host of a parasite. Well—three parasites. Vampires, really. And your Witcher—” "He's not mine at all, thank you." “—told us he’d take care of them. Then he said he was needed elsewhere and promised to return within two weeks. Hasn’t been back since.”

“Shit.” 

“Indeed.” 

“That’s not like him,” said Jaskier. “Believe me, I saw my fair share of contracts—he always finishes the ones he takes.” His tongue flicked out to wet his lips and his eyes met Onanes’ intense brown ones. “I’m sure he’s got himself caught up in something nasty.”

“He promised,” said Onanes. “And instead, he left us here to die.”

“So…the starvation?” 

“Can’t leave town. They’ll hunt and kill us,” he said. “Torture us.” Well, that explained why bread thievery was a murderable offense. Wait.

“Is she…still alive?” asked Jaskier, looking at the dangling woman. 

“Yes,” replied Onanes. He leaned back in his seat with his face pointed at the porch roof. “Though she won’t be for much longer. Stealing—especially food stealing—is a crime punishable by sacrifice nowadays.” Jaskier squinted at the woman, seeing she was actually slumped forward in defeat, not making a sound. His heart fluttered in pity and fear.

“So she’ll be killed by the vampires? Fed to them?” he whispered, hoping she couldn’t hear him, and knowing it didn’t matter if she did.

“Unfortunately. That is the way things have been in Ballater for the past couple of months. Food is scarce, and what we can grow in this shoddy soil doesn’t last long. The vampires will—forgive my wordplay—drain us dry and leave this a ghost town, if nothing changes. We need your Witcher, Master Jaskier.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to find him for you.”

“Then you go in his stead.” Jaskier’s head snapped up. 

“What?”

“You go in his stead. Take care of our problem for us.” There was no hint of amusement in Onanes’ voice; it was monotone and cold and grim. And angry. Jaskier did not like that combination. “We deserve help, Julian. And I don’t care where it comes from.”

“I don’t know how to fight vampires!” he cried, hands grasping painfully at his hair. “You’ll send me in there to die!”

“And she’ll live,” said Onanes, nodding at the woman. “For now.” Jaskier’s breath was hitching and he could feel a panicked sob on its way. “If you don’t, my men will find you and we’ll…figure something out to do with your body.” Onanes patted his stomach and Jaskier’s eyes widened further than they had ever before. 

A town so desperate for survival that it would turn to cannibalism. And kill the Continent’s best and most accomplished bard. What a tragic tale that would be.


	3. The House

“You can’t be serious,” muttered Jaskier under his breath. Onanes had abandoned him some time ago at the gate of the largest house in Ballater. There was a gravel path leading to the decrepit porch of this once-great “manor,” covered in weeds and dirt. Jaskier had a hard time seeing the ground through the mass of plants. 

Thankfully the old man had let him spend the night in one of the other homes; he had written out his last will and testament—the lute was to go to Geralt, and everything else was to burn—and tucked his possessions under his bed. 

He had fallen asleep listening to the whispers of the townsfolk downstairs.

He knew no one expected him to survive. 

They had given him a substantial amount of bread—in their eyes. In actuality he received a small hunk barely fit for a meal, as well as a flask of water. He supposed he should be thankful to some degree that they were willing to sacrifice food for him, but they were still feeding him to the vampires. Or planning to eat him themselves. He shuddered. 

Other than bread and water, the people of Ballater had given him nothing but trouble.

The porch was similar to the others in its grandiosity, as well as its decrepit state. The wood rotted and a tangle of ivy had replaced the purplish paint on its railings. Seeing several spiders dangling from above, Jaskier grimaced. 

He studied the place for windows, noting there was a large bow window on the second story facing West. That would come in handy, he supposed. There were a handful of other windows, each rusted and old, yet elegant. He let his eyes wander across the manor. In its glory days it was likely beautiful, like the rest of Ballater. 

The sun was still somewhat low in the sky; Jaskier planned to enter the house at noon to assure the vampires would be sleeping upon his arrival. Though he was trying to remain quiet, he pried one of the stairs up, the wood splintering easily. He fiddled with it, trying to form some kind of spike. Eventually he was forced to give up. The wood was just too weak.

The porch creaked ominously beneath his feet and he braced himself, praying he would not fall through. The last thing he needed was some kind of injury. He frowned up at the spiders, noticed the sun was climbing higher and higher, and sighed heavily as he realized it was time.

He adjusted the strap of his lute anxiously, then touched the door as lightly as he could. It squealed as it opened, and he grit his teeth, eyes searching the darkness. Not a single clawed hand reached out for him—he counted that as a win. The door fell silent as it finally stopped moving, and he cautiously stepped inside. 

No sound but the click of his boot on the stone floor. He said a quiet prayer, and his other foot planted itself inside. He left the door open, just in case. But there was no sound. 

Jaskier was alone.

Before him was an elegant staircase—once-elegant, that was—leading to what he assumed were bedrooms, and likely where the vampires were now. Unless they could smell him. His heart leapt into his throat. Oh Gods, what if they could smell him? After a horrific moment, he breathed again, trying to shut himself up. If only his mind wasn’t racing, he would be able to survey his future battlefield. 

He decided at once to begin moving, steps quick and as quiet as he could manage. To the left of the stairs was the dining room, dim in the afternoon, the East-facing-window blocked by a set of curtains. He made sure to tie them back securely, letting in a wonderful light. His head swiveled as he made sure he was well and truly alone. And he was, it seemed.

From here he could see the pillars which supported the stairs. There seemed to be a bit of space between them and the wall under the stairs—as in, there was a hidey hole between them. He eyed it and then carried on.

It seemed that the house’s previous family had been wealthy, but not enough to have servants. He could only assume, since the kitchen was not hidden away somewhere. It was nowhere near as extravagant as the entryway, the walls patchy and bulging in places. There was one small window above the table, also blocked by curtains. He opened them, though he doubted the small amount of light that filtered in would be useful. It was quite an ugly kitchen.

Across from the kitchen was a sitting room, a mess of books on the floor. He struggled not to cough as he disturbed a massive amount of dust, causing it to fly everywhere. He returned to the kitchen, eyes ever searching for movement. None.

He needed some kind of weapon. If he could just get his hands on a knife—

The curtains. 

They were closed.

He hadn’t tied them back, but he didn’t think they could have found their way back to being closed on their own. A knife. He needed a knife. Focus. Focus.

His breaths were less steady now, and he shook as he stepped toward the window. He undid the curtains again, watching them for a moment. Seeing if they shut themselves. They didn’t.

Then Jaskier turned his attention to the cauldron in the corner of the room, which had clearly long been neglected. There was, to his delight, a hunting knife sitting in the ashes as if waiting for him. He made his way back into the dining area, relaxing only a little when he saw the curtains were still tied back.

He resisted the urge to sit on the floor, for he knew if he did, he would likely never get back up. It was then, horrified, he noticed the door was closed. He stepped very quickly into the light provided by the window and whirled to face the rest of the house.

He was still alone.

Until he heard them.

Two knocks. A fist hitting stone. 

It took everything in him not to smash the window and leave. 

More knocks echoed through the bottom of the house, and Jaskier’s eyes widened as he saw a pale hand slide down the railing of the stairs. Sweat began to bead on his forehead and the usually articulate thoughts running through his head were a garbled mess—static, frantic and unintelligible. Run. Run! 

Yet he couldn’t. The hand slid down the banister, joined by a thin arm, then a shoulder, and then a black-haired head. A woman. 

“I can hear your breathing,” she said. “It’s quite loud, you know.” She was looking at him then, a brilliant green gaze locking him in place. 

“And rude,” said another voice. Two dark hands were gripping the railing now. “We were sleeping. And Anaïs doesn’t like to be woken up.” He climbed silently down the rest of the stairs, joining the dark-haired woman at the bottom. They were squinting at him, and Jaskier hoped it was because their eyes were having trouble in the light.

“You know, usually when they give us people, they’re either dead or tied up,” said the dark-haired one. She gave him a pointed look, and it took Jaskier a moment to realize she was expecting some kind of response.

“Ah, yes. I—my name is Jaskier, and I’ve not been given to you. I’m here for entirely other reasons,” he said. The greyed-out buzzing in the back of his mind faded ever so slightly. “You are?”

The dark-haired one let out a burst of laughter, eyes wide. She turned to the man and whispered to him. “We are Adrian” —she motioned to the man— “and Claire,” she said. She was still smiling, teeth bright and uncomfortably normal. Adrian had raised an eyebrow, black eyes intent on the dark-haired woman. 

It suddenly struck Jaskier that the two vampires didn’t appear very, well, vampiric.

“Nice to meet you, I suppose,” he said nervously. He hoped and prayed that all of his performances had prepared him for this moment, that the vampires would not call his bluff. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard of me or not, but as I said I am Jaskier. I am the Continent’s best bard—and not just in my personal opinion, mind you. And I have come to grace you hear in Ballater with the performance of a lifetime. You see I’ve heard a great deal about Ballater's trio of ferocious—”

Adrian had clasped his hand on Claire’s shoulder, and was whispering to her.

“—vampires on my journey—”

Claire laughed, dark hair bouncing on her shoulders.

“Ah—what's that?” he asked. “What’s happening? Have I done something wrong?”

“No, not at all,” said Adrian. “We were just discussing how long it will take before the light fades.”

Jaskier’s heart didn’t sink. It plummeted. He looked down at his feet and watched as his only defense ebbed away. The sun was rising too quickly. He was already running out of time.


	4. The Vampires

He took a shuddering step backwards, back pressed against the window in a pathetic attempt to buy himself some time. “Be that as it may,” he said, “I would appreciate it if you would give me a chance to properly introduce myself. And I beg you at least listen this time.”

“You’re right, Adrian, he is rude,” said Claire gleefully. “Go right ahead, Sir Mouthy.”

“That was unnecessarily mean,” replied Jaskier. He ignored Adrian’s scoff and continued, “As I was saying, I am Jaskier, the best bard the Continent has to offer, and I’m here to grace the famous vampires of Ballater with a performance. You’re quite famous, you know.” He was bluffing. The plan he had come up with involved a lot of bluffing and relied too much on dumb luck. 

“Interesting.” Adrian took a couple of steps closer to him. As he did so Jaskier noticed he was squinting harder and harder, as if struggling to see. Inwardly he smiled—he had been right to open the curtains. “Let’s hear it then.” 

“Oh—Alright then. Would you like to be given context?”

“Whatever the master bard thinks is best,” said Adrian. He smiled nastily, reminding Jaskier of Geralt, in a way. 

“Well then. I guess I should go into further detail about myself.” 

Claire guffawed. “Please, go right ahead!” Adrian slapped her arm and she playfully batted at him. Jaskier’s mouth formed a thin line. If the vampires wouldn’t even listen to him there would be no chance of talking them out of eating him.

“I met a Witcher—some say he’s the very best Witcher there is—named Geralt of Rivia.” Claire fell silent, eyes sharp. “I gather you know of him. The White Wolf?” No response, only judgmental gazes, so he continued, “Saved my life. I figured I owed him something, and since his reputation was…well, less than good, I wrote a song for him, in the hopes it would improve his treatment.” Jaskier took a breath, and was about to continue when Claire butted in.

“Are you going to sing it or not?”

“Yes, yes. Just give me a moment.” His lute felt strange in his hands. It was cold, and backlit. Used to performing before warm fires and warm rooms full of people, its face was gaunt and dark. He swallowed. He had performed “Toss a Coin” so many times, in front of so many new audiences, and yet this felt like the first. 

When he was done the bitter taste of fear was in the back of his throat, and the garble of thoughts was there again. Focus. Focus on their reactions. Neither one looked very impressed.

“So you are that guy. That makes sense,” said Claire suddenly. She had a knowing look on her face as she added, “I hadn’t actually put it together. You’re the pipsqueak that used to follow around that white-haired guy. They call him the White Wolf? What a stupid title…You really are famous.” To Adrian, she muttered, “He must be telling the truth. His story, his voice. It’s him.”

“They sent you in here as revenge!” said Adrian. He was smiling now, too, eyes crinkled, and Jaskier was suddenly very aware of the third figure behind the others. “The Witcher was here, wasn’t he, Anaïs? And he left like a coward. And you’re here! They’ve gone and sacrificed one of the most infamous people in the Continent!” 

“That would be ridiculous,” said the third vampire—Anaïs. A pair of disgustingly inhuman eyes peered out from behind Claire. “Ah, it is a bard, at the very least. I am hungry. Let us finish him quickly.”

“Absolutely not!” said Adrian. He was still grinning and had Jaskier not been focused on the newcomer’s hideous eye sockets he would have been horrified to see the pair of yellow fangs now protruding from his gums. “I want to hear more,” he added.

Claire’s face was twisted with a sick joy. “What brought you to Ball-Eater, Jaskier the Bard?”

“Well,” began Jaskier, only a little thrown off by the crude mispronunciation of Ballater, “I was just passing through, earning coin. Saw the signs, recognized the name, came here for you. Quite simple.”

“That means you must have seen it! Did you appreciate my little joke? I carved an ‘e’ where these people will never see it! They’ll never know they live in Ball-Eater,” said Claire. Jaskier hated how much she smiled. Her teeth were clean, but disgustingly normal. Was she actually a vampire, or did vampires have normal teeth? He shook his head and pretended it cleared some of the fear.

“So that was you,” he said. “Yes, I did appreciate it…It seems you and I have a similar opinion of the locals.”

“So they did send you in here as a sacrifice,” said Adrian, crossing his arms. 

“I think ‘sacrifice’ is a bit too strong of a word…they were hoping I could appease you by means of performance. Look. They even gave me rations. They wouldn’t have done that if they expected me to die.”

No one spoke for a moment.

He continued nervously, “I can perform another song if you like. Or just…tell you about the Witcher. It seems most people enjoy hearing about him.”

“If you hadn’t noticed, we aren’t people.” Adrian had moved suddenly, silently, and was sitting in one of the dining room chairs. This left Anaïs in Jaskier’s direct line of sight. He held back a horrified gasp as he took in the ragged, peeling skin on her face, and her bloodshot yellow eyes. He was terrified even before he laid eyes on her impossibly long, sharp claws protruding from her fingers.

He immediately averted his gaze, and Anaïs snorted. “A-Anyways, I can perform a myriad of songs for you, and tell whatever tales you wish to hear. And…in exchange I ask that you spare me. And perhaps, if I am persuasive enough, you will leave Ballater?”

Anaïs raised a single long finger shushed him. “We will not waste our time on you. Three nights. You have only three nights to convince us not to kill you.”

Jaskier blinked.

“Now then. Sing ‘Toss a Coin’ once more. It’s my favorite.” Her smile was bloody and sharp.

Fuck.


	5. The Strike

Night one was seeming to go about as well as Jaskier could have hoped. He performed ‘Toss a Coin’ as requested and received a surprising amount of applause from Anaïs, after which he allowed himself to sit down on the floor. The vampires didn’t seem to mind and hadn’t made any indication that they wanted to hurt him yet. After all, he was being given an opportunity to convince them to do the opposite.

All things considered, he felt he was doing pretty well. 

“What’s he like? The Witcher, I mean,” said Claire. Her chin was in her hands, fingers framing her beautiful face. If she was human, Jaskier mused, he would likely have a hard time resisting her charms. Indeed, those emerald green eyes drew him in.

“Ah.” He thought for a moment. “Brooding.”

“I’ve heard he’s an asshole,” Adrian cut in. “Is that true?”

“…On occasion. But—I’d classify him more as the strong, silent type you wouldn’t want to cross,” said Jaskier, waving his hands. Adrian nodded at that. “He, at the very least, doesn’t try to be an asshole. He manages, somehow.”

“I’d be an asshole, too, if everyone thought I was a monster,” said Anaïs, a massive grin on her face. Jaskier was not sure whether he was allowed to laugh at that or not; one thing he was certain of, however, was that he wished Anaïs would stop showing her teeth. 

“Don’t stop there, bard.” Jaskier used the window as a support as he stood, brushing dust from his doublet. 

“He’s like most people, but he has a tendency to be rude and abrasive. Probably a byproduct of his…Witcherness. I’ve not put too much thought into it for my own sake. I don’t want to get too caught up in his angst,” said Jaskier honestly. The vampires seemed to appreciate this. “He’s just a person with swords.”

“I don’t think that’s entirely true,” said Adrian. “He’s a mutant. Not human. He’s more like us than he is you.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not a person,” countered Jaskier. “There is a difference.”

“And what might that be?” asked Claire, now standing. She leaned forward on her hands, eyes intently fixed on him.

“…An example, perhaps?” He was met with no resistance. “You three are people, even though you’re not humans. We’re having a conversation, and you had the decency to provide me three days to state my case. You’re people.”

The vampires stared at him. Adrian’s black eyebrows were climbing higher and higher on his forehead. Jaskier began to sweat, praying to all the Gods he didn’t believe in that he hadn’t messed up. Claire cackled. “You stink when you’re afraid!”

“I stink?” he asked, almost incredulously. 

“Like shit!”

“Apologies. It’s just that…I may be dead within the next three days.”

“If the Witcher is so boring—” Adrian interrupted whatever Claire had been about to say— “then why does half the Continent want to kill him? Furthermore, if he’s in fact normal, why would someone like you dedicate their entire career to him?”

Every time Jaskier thought Claire’s eyes could not possibly get any wider, any prettier, they grew both in size and beauty. They were looking directly into his, and he dumbly took a step towards her. “It’s complicated, really. I already explained my initial connection to him, but upon meeting him by chance a couple times after, it was obvious he was my muse—one of them, at least.” Another step. “So I decided to follow him. Get my inspiration from the way he moved when he fought, the heartache he experienced.” Another step. What was happening? Why was he moving?

“Claire. That’s enough,” Adrian snapped. Jaskier blinked a few times as he assessed the situation. He was standing straight, the front of his doublet in contact with the dining table. Claire was in his face, also blinking. 

“Been a while since I used that little trick,” she said. Upon seeing Adrian’s stormy expression, she added, “What? I’m impatient.”

“Anaïs gave him three nights. You don’t get to be impatient.” Jaskier’s heart was hammering against his chest as if attempting to escape. He stumbled backward until he slammed into the window once more, desperately staring at the vampires. Everything seemed to be fine—Claire was sitting once more, picking at a fork left on the table, Adrian’s hands folded in front of him, and Anaïs squinting at him with her horrible bloodshot eyes from the head of the table. 

And then she raised a finger to her chin in thought.

Jaskier’s breaths had been under control until now. “What was that? Why did you do that?”

“I simply compelled you to come forward,” said Claire. “And I said—I’m getting impatient. You’re fun, but I’m sick of you.”

“Wait!” he cried, vision going blurry. “What else do you want? I can—”

“Calm down,” said Adrian. “Claire, don’t do that again. Not yet.” Yet! How thoughtful, thought Jaskier spitefully. Three damn nights, my ass. “Claire, do you promise not to do that again?” An annoyed grunt. “There. Happy?”

“Not really,” said Jaskier. Claire smirked.

“Now…the Witcher was here. You know this, yes?” asked Adrian dryly.

“Yes.”

“Why did he leave?”

“Because he’s scared of us!” Claire clapped her hands together.

“From my understanding, he likely got caught up in some other contract, or perhaps in some political drama. That’s why Nilfgaard’s after him, anyways.”

“If he’s your muse, why weren’t you with him?” asked Adrian. Upon seeing Jaskier’s furious blush, he suddenly became more interested. 

“Tell us the truth,” said Claire. “We’ll be able to tell if you’re lying?”

“Is that true?” Adrian shrugged. “W-Well. It seems that despite my status as the best bard of the Continent, Geralt found my presence a bit of a nuisance.”

“I simply must hear more,” said Claire. Anaïs’ teeth were glinting in the dying sunlight, and she made brief eye-contact with Adrian. Jaskier did not like that.

“As you know, he’s had somewhat of an…entanglement with Yen—”

“Yes. Her. Continue. Why did he abandon you?”

“Abandon is too strong a word. He more encouraged me very strongly to leave. He had just received some bad news, I think, and he was angry. And I was annoying. So, naturally, in his stupidity, he cast me aside.”

“Incredibly stupid, from the rumors that have been going around,” said Anaïs suddenly.

“What does that mean?”

“You seem to be an incredibly valuable asset, is all.” She stood slowly, rolling her bony shoulders. “And an enjoyable fellow, as we’ve seen.” She was coming towards him. He flinched with every silent step she took. “Don’t fret.”

He was fretting and believed he was entitled to doing so.

Claire stood up very quickly, the chair thrown with a loud clatter to the floor. Her eyes were once again wide, glaring into his, and he recoiled, shutting them immediately. He regretted that decision very much.

A sharp pain flared in his arm, just between his shoulder and his neck. He let out a cry of alarm, pulling away, effectively ripping gashes in his own body with Anaïs’ teeth. He stumbled then, away from her, and when he found proper footing he bolted for the front door. 

His lute was in his right hand and before he could register what he was doing he swung it at the head of the first vampire he saw—

Splintering wood and a pained shriek. 

He was grabbed then, and teeth found their way into his flesh. He screamed desperately, shoving the attacker backward and once more causing more damage to himself, and fell forwards. 

“So, what? You’ve decided to kill me?” he cried—in a very deep and manly tone. His free hand slapped against the floor as he tried to crawl away. His blood pounded worryingly in his ears. 

“Quite the opposite, actually,” said one of the vampires; he wasn’t actually sure which one. “We like you a lot; we’re making sure you’ll be around forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how vampire creation works in the Witcher universe, so it works as it does in TVD.


	6. The Kiss

Jaskier’s shoulder was on fire. Melting, perhaps. It was very hot and excruciating. Heavy. His vision was swimming, his thoughts repetitive and torturous. Get away. Run. Live. Someone was laughing at him as he dragged himself towards the pillars of the stairs. 

He could hide there. The handle of his lute remained in his right hand, the busted wood clinging to the ends of the wires dragging on the floor. He would have cried over it, had he had the luxury of time. 

He grit his teeth, fingers scrabbling on the dusty ground. He had almost made it to the pillars when someone’s foot planted itself between his shoulder blades and slammed him into the ground. His breath was knocked out of him. “Stop crawling, damn it!” cried Anaïs. “You’ll bleed out if we don’t finish!”

There were so many questions rushing through his mind that he couldn’t focus on any of them. The layers of words and pain and panic were blinding him. Hot tears were streaming down his face. Everything hurt—Anaïs leaned down and grabbed his hair. “I told you to stop.” He was flipped onto his back. There were more hands on him, then.

“Let me go!” He writhed.

The teeth were in his shoulder once more; this time he could not tear away from them. He cried out, hoping someone—anyone—could hear him. His pleas were lost on the vampires. 

He struggled for a while more, until his once racing mind soon slowed, and his thoughts became sluggish. 

His cries died in his throat. He looked at the ceiling through blurred eyes until it was replaced with Claire’s face. The beautiful green eyes and plump lips had been replaced by a sickening array of black veins and bloodshot eyes. Her perfect teeth were yellow as Anaïs.’ 

He noted with a trace of pride that he could see a handful of splinters embedded in her now gaunt cheeks. The moonlight streaming through the window illuminated the speckles of blood around each woodchip. 

He searched then for Adrian, finding he was the one responsible for pinning his arms down. He could not find the male vampire’s face, but his long-clawed hands were evidence enough. Jaskier briefly wondered if he had ever met another vampire; they had looked so human.

“His blood smells lovely,” said Claire, tearing him from his thoughts. Anaïs grunted in response, jaw locked around Jaskier’s shoulder. She had ripped away a part of his doublet sunk her teeth into the holes she had already punctured in him. Jaskier watched in horrified awe as she gulped down his blood.

He wheezed, trying to reason with them and finding he could no longer speak. They had given him three days. What changed their mind? Was he bad company or—wait a moment. “…we’re making sure you’ll be around forever?” Anaïs had said…something like that.

“At least give me a taste!” whined Claire.

“There are more pressing issues than who gets to drink,” said Adrian. Jaskier still couldn’t find him. It occurred to him he likely didn’t want to see what the male vampire looked like in his monstrous form. Claire and Anaïs were disgusting enough. His eyelids were becoming heavier and heavier, and even though his mind screamed for him to keep them open, his eyes slid shut.

“Anaïs broke her own rules,” spat Claire. “She gave him three days and almost immediately revoked them.”

Jaskier felt the penetrating fangs retreat, sliding out of his wounds. The lips on his shoulder vanished and were soon replaced by a bony hand. “For good reason, Claire. The Witcher’s in town. Couldn’t you hear him?”

Geralt.

“She was a bit distracted,” said Adrian. He sounded annoyed.

“Geralt?” he croaked. It took an alarming amount of effort to squeeze the name from his throat. Adrian’s hand moved from his wrist was placed over his mouth.

“He’s still lucid?”

“I’m far from finishing. He will be for a while.” Anaïs’ leaned forward again and he gasped in pain as her teeth found their way back into his body. The hand over his mouth was cold and smelled like rotting meat. 

Tears leaked through his lashes. There was nothing he could do. His body was heavy, and he shivered against the floor. Adrian wasn’t even holding him very tightly. It was as if he wanted to be drained of blood. 

If Geralt was in Ballater…If he was in Ballater there was a chance for Jaskier. If he could just last until the Witcher arrived.

His fingers twitched around the handle of his lute, the end of it sharp where it had broken off from the body. His eyes snapped open. With renewed strength, he twisted the wood in his grasp and jabbed it straight into Anaïs’ side.

She shrieked, diving off him as if attempting to run from the injury in her ribs, and for a moment the other vampires sat in shocked silence. Then Adrian’s hands were gripping his very tightly, pressing his arms into the floor, and Claire was on top of him. 

He thrashed angrily, hurling embarrassingly unoriginal insults at each of the vampires.

Her teeth snapped mercilessly around his shoulder, the same place Anaïs had been drinking from, and he yelled. “Fuck you! Get off of me you pig!”

“I’d shut up if I were you,” snapped Adrian, suddenly in Jaskier’s line of sight. His face was twisted in rage. Jaskier grimaced up at him, proud that he could still hear Anaïs groaning and rolling on the floor. “We might have been civil before; people, even, to you. But you will learn we are far from either of those.”

As if for emphasis, Claire’s vice-like grip on his wound clenched. His vision whited for a moment—with great effort, Jaskier grunted out, “I already learned.” A labored gasp. 

He was also learning quite a bit about vampiric tendencies. They seemed to like to play with their food, and depending on their capabilities seemed to enjoy hypnosis or putting their victims to sleep—or something of the like. If he survived, the collection of poems he would write…it would be magnificent.

It seemed Claire was not the same as Anaïs. His mind had been possessed by some urge to submit when Anaïs had been draining him, but now it was his own. Either Claire was different or Anaïs had been using a different tactic. He decided, in the end, that it didn’t matter. He was still going to die. 

Because, really, he could not do anything more. Had he attempted to escape immediately after stabbing Anaïs he might have had a chance. But now he was truly being held down. 

“Hurry up, Claire!” spat Adrian. Joining the rage in his voice, Jaskier noticed, was panic. Before he could put the pieces together, Claire grunted. His body’s strength was almost entirely gone within one second. He felt nauseous, his head hurt, his limbs were limp. “Come on, you don’t need that much! Kiss him!”

Her fangs retreated. “Gods, I was right. His blood is delicious.”

“I don’t care! You shouldn’t have taken so long! Do it now!” 

Jaskier’s eyes widened as Claire sprang forward, his blood lining her lips like some sick imitation of lipstick. Suddenly her lips were on his—he jolted, head hitting the floor. He made some noise of protest, but her hands were cupping his face and had such a strong grip.

Her tongue slid over his mouth, attempting to open it. 

It was then he remembered the stories of the vampire’s kiss. They drew a man’s blood and injected it back into him mingled with theirs. It…would make him like them. He made another noise, horrified, twisted as much as he could as he struggled to get away, but the bruising grips of both vampires were too strong.

Claire leaned away, and he gasped for air. Then she pinched his nose and dove in again. He had been crying and in pain before, but not aware enough to be embarrassed by his predicament. This was incredibly humiliating, he realized. It didn’t matter, yet it did. If Geralt saw this, he…he didn’t know how the Witcher would react.

His options lay before him—die or become a vampire. And though his mind opted for the former, his body defaulted to survival. His vision was swirling, electricity dancing across the images before him, and he opened his mouth, desperate for oxygen. 

Claire’s tongue swooped between his lips, bringing with it a surge of warm—unbearably hot, really—liquid with it. The flavor hit him. Copper. Vile copper laced with poison. He sputtered beneath her, wishing desperately he had stuck with Anaïs, who would have at least dulled his senses. 

Her fingers released his nose and he was so thankful for the air—until it burned him. There were more tears springing from his eyes as he choked on his own blood. He tried to force it back out of his mouth, but there was more and more pouring from Claire into him—it was leaking down the sides of his face.

He writhed, angry, terrified, beneath the once fair maiden with the green eyes. He sputtered again, more of his own gore escaping from their locked lips, and let out some indignant yell.

His eyes widened, and he knew sooner or later he would drown or swallow—

The door burst from its hinges, slamming to the ground. For the briefest of moments, the backlit silhouette of a man with a large, glinting sword stood in its place. 

Then he descended on the vampires. 

Geralt had arrived.


	7. The Witcher

Geralt rushed through the shadows towards them. Claire dove off Jaskier, crying out in shock. Adrian cursed loudly and released him; Jaskier’s head flopped to the side as he tried to watch the happenings before him. Anaïs wasn’t putting up much of a fight, staggering to her feet using one of the pillars for support. The lute handle protruded from her side. She looked like she was having trouble breathing, and blood dribbled down her face; whose blood it was Jaskier wasn’t certain.

The Witcher was doing a tad worse than Jaskier cared to admit. His sword practically glittered in the moonlight it was moving so swiftly, yet none of the vampires had fallen. He wasn’t performing expert dodges, allowing Claire to get a good swipe at his upper arm—he grunted at that, and swung for her next. Claire’s head was separated from her body.

The spray of blood that followed was impressive. It painted the floor with a grotesque arc of droplets, which were soon joined by the body and its head. The beastly body of the vampire softened almost on impact, the fingernails becoming human, the teeth reverting. 

Claire’s pretty emerald eyes stared back at Jaskier. He watched them dull with sick satisfaction.

Adrian was the next to die. Jaskier hadn’t been paying attention but when he looked back at Geralt, he was standing over the seizing body of the vampire. He could see an expanding black pool of liquid around Adrian’s head, hear the gurgling breaths of the beast, and then the body went slack. 

Anaïs, understandably, was not advancing on the Witcher. In fact, when he turned his attention on her, she cried, “Wait! You need to know this.” Geralt didn’t move, didn’t make any sign that he had heard her. “Claire kissed him. He’s likely swallowed the blood. He’ll be a—” she wheezed, her own breaths bubbling— “He’ll be a vampire. He’ll need someone to take care of him.”

It was then Jaskier realized he should have tried to flip himself back over—to get rid of some of the blood in his mouth. 

“To mentor him, you know?” she continued. Geralt still didn’t speak. His yellow eyes pinned the vampire to the pillar. Had Jaskier been in a better way, he would likely have been documenting with his entire being the intensity of the moment; the gorgeous violence he had been witness to, the heroism on display. The beautiful Witcher slaying the horrendous creatures. However, he was not in a better way, and was too focused on trying to roll his dumb body over so he could lie on his stomach. Being distracted, he missed the way Geralt’s expression pinched with worry and poorly concealed rage.  
Jaskier managed to flop onto his side, his uninjured shoulder pressed into the floor. He let the gore slide from his mouth, over his tongue and teeth, and onto the floor. It was a truly disgusting experience. He had hoped he would get used to the flavor of blood, but it somehow managed to get worse every moment it remained on his taste buds. He gagged, dry heaving, and in its desperation, his body made it to its knees.

“You need me,” choked Anaïs.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” muttered Geralt. He strode forward, less graceful than usual, and far less careful. Anaïs hissed at him, swiping clumsily at the air before the sword flashed again and she screamed. Her hand plopped on the floor. 

It was this image, not the others, that made Jaskier vomit. Well. Dry heave. Blood and bile forced their way from his throat. Again, he gagged. It was miserable—in the corner of his vision, he saw Anaïs collapse to the floor. Good riddance.

“Jaskier.” He groaned, slumping forward. Geralt’s hand placed itself on Jaskier’s shoulder and held him up. “You’re alive.”

Jaskier gave a strained “Mm-hmm.” It was the best he could do at the moment. Because yes. He was alive. He raised his hand and waved Geralt away, though he wanted the support. Geralt didn’t go anywhere. Jaskier prepared to say something else, but his world lilted to the side and he careened to the floor. Well. Almost. Geralt guided his body to a clean spot on the ground.

“I need to take care of the bites.”

And he did, Jaskier presumed. He seemed to careen in and out of consciousness as the Witcher patched him up, the pain in his shoulder spiking and dulling randomly. Thankfully, he never fully went under; he feared where his mind would wander if he was to sleep. 

“Jaskier.”

“Geralt?” It came out wrong, twisted in his mouth.

“You need water. Drink.” There was a flask on his lip then, and with gentleness Jaskier didn’t know he possessed Geralt aided him in drinking. He was eternally grateful for the soothing, cleaning liquid, but it didn’t remove the flavor of blood. 

“Where were you?” he asked next.

“…Child surprise,” said Geralt. “Sit up.” 

It was far less difficult a task than Jaskier had been expecting. Geralt leaned him against one of the pillars and squatted down before him. Jaskier noted that his sword was laying on the floor some distance away. “We safe?” he asked. 

“For now, at least. Did you swallow it?”

“I’m not…I don’t think so. I tried not to.”

“Good.” They were quiet for a while. Geralt didn’t look at him. He was looking at the pieces of the lute strewn across the floor. The handle was free of Anaïs’ body and lay at Geralt’s feet. 

“My lute,” murmured Jaskier. 

“I’m sorry.” It was sudden, blunt. “I’m sorry about your lute, and I’m sorry…for getting you involved in this. And I’m sorry for what I said. On the mountain. I—” Geralt wiped his hand over his mouth, the stubble of his chin scratchy. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

For someone good with words, Jaskier was doing a poor job of responding. “I haven’t forgiven you, Geralt. And I won’t, for a while. For the mountain, at least. This? I…I don’t think it’s your fault, really.”

“Hmm.” 

“I’m still mad at you. But I am so glad to see you,” Jaskier said, a wet smile finding its way onto his face. 

“Likewise. You did well,” said Geralt with surprising warmth. He gestured at the splintered handle of the lute, now bloody and gnarled. “That was…a good move.”

“My lute,” said Jaskier again.

“I’ll—I’ll buy you another one.”

“It had better sound godly,” muttered Jaskier.

“Hmm.”

“Expensive. Elegant.”

“Hmm. Sure.” Jaskier blinked, smiling now. Geralt was here. And he had at least tried to apologize. It was a start. Perhaps, if he allowed himself, Jaskier would admit he still—well, had feelings for the Witcher. “Listen. We still have a problem.” His smile vanished. “We don’t actually know if you’ve been…converted.”

“Shit.”

“Indeed. We’ll test it with my sword. Just touch it, one finger if you like. Or the back of your hand. It might burn, but if it doesn’t…” Geralt paused. “Well, if it doesn’t burn, you’re fine.” 

He retrieved the sword, moving gracefully. Jaskier had never been so thankful to be able to hear someone’s footsteps before. He observed suddenly that the night had passed. The sun was peeking through the curtains which he discovered were closed. Geralt had prepared for the worst. Which was probably smart.

His attention was drawn to his hands. His long, well-groomed fingers were colored rusty by a layer of blood, dry and uncomfortable. His lute and his dignity were destroyed by a vampire’s kiss, and the man he loved had to check if he was a monster now.

He had failed to talk his way out of the hunt, he had put up a meek fight, and he had murdered his own prized instrument. And in the end, he was left with bloody hands and a wounded shoulder. Left covered in gore. 

The silver blade was held before him, and he reluctantly, with a shaking arm, brushed his skin against it. 

Nothing.

“Nothing!” he cried gleefully. He moved too fast, trying to scramble to his feet, and everything swayed, and he could no longer see—Geralt stopped him from falling with an arm around his shoulders. “I’m okay!”

Geralt didn’t say anything. Jaskier stumbled again and the Witcher hefted him into his arms. A squawk left Jaskier. “Geralt! Haven’t I suffered enough embarrassment already?”

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed, bard. Now let’s get you to a real healer.”

The sun felt incredible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!


End file.
